


Dum Spiro, Spero

by kakashikrazy256



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s05e13 I Am Legends, F/F, F/M, Gore, John Needs A Hug, M/M, Mental Breakdown, No big deal, Self-Hatred, basically this story is - john: this is my fault charlie: no its mine john: no me charlie: no me, charlie needs many hugs, it must've taken time for Charlie to convince her sisters to do the whole tv thing, since they did all die to zombies, so john was just vibing in the pub with his dead friends for a few hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24875806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashikrazy256/pseuds/kakashikrazy256
Summary: His grip on her shirt is tight and trembling, his knuckles as white as the sickly hue of his skin. Charlie doesn’t think she’s seen John like this...ever. Not even when they had gone off and broken the timeline.“Fix this, Charlie. I don’t care how just-just //please//.”The immediate aftermath of “I am Legends”, before Charlie gets her TV production running.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	Dum Spiro, Spero

**Author's Note:**

> Charlie must’ve taken some time to convince her sisters to agree with her wack tv plan. John definitely would’ve been the only one left alive in the bar for god knows how long. Can’t imagine he took that well at all. 
> 
> Fair warning for some explicit descriptions of gore and the Legends’ deaths cuz zombies...yeah. 
> 
> If I’m being honest, this is just a lot of John angst because I’m a clown that enjoys that :V And some Charlie angst too, she's been through a lot :<
> 
> Dum Spiro, Spero - While I breathe, I hope 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy :)

At some point, John gives up. 

There isn’t any sort of indication of what the final straw is. He just bloody does. 

If he is being honest, he’s surprised that it took him so long to finally decide to stop.

He hadn’t stopped fighting when he saw the pool cue fall out of Sara’s bloodied hands before her fingers disappeared into the gnawing mouths of the monsters that still surround him right now. 

He had thrown another ball of flames, trying not to look at the way Sharpie crumples under a horde, her shotgun useless besides her torso. 

He had shoved Zari out of the incoming burst of warm red, originating from the fatal bite on Mick’s throat that sent him to the ground like a bag of bricks. The blood spatter ends up across his coat like some fucking piece of abstract art.

He had clenched his eyes shut, wishing he could do the same with his ears when he hears the sound of teeth against steel turn into the raw sound of flesh tearing away and Nate’s choked off cries grow quiet.

And then it had been just John and Zari.

Zari who was getting swarmed as the last person with an undamned soul at the London pub they had taken refuge at. 

John who just didn’t have _enough_ to take care of all of them.

Zari had done her best, pushing at zombies with gusts of wind the best she could with what little experience she had with the totem while John attempted to use the air to stoke the fire stronger. There were still too many of them coming from all directions. 

Zari’s shriek of sheer terror when the first one to break through her wind barrier clamped a jaw around her arm, John still hears it echoing in his brain amidst the pounding headache. 

He had pulled and pulled, throwing zombie after zombie off her, mind racing through his repertoire of spells for something‒ _Anything_ ‒ to make this nightmare end _._

In the end, her shrieks turned into sobs, then bloody gurgles. Then nothing. 

John had kept pulling. He shoved the zombies away again and again until they eventually left Zari’s body alone on their own accord. 

He had stood very still in the sudden unasked respite he had been graced with. There were no more screams, no more toe-curling sounds of cannibalism, no more anything. 

It was just him

Just John Constantine. 

In a sea of bodies that belonged to his friends.

It's just all too familiar. 

After that, the details are hazy.

All he sees is the blinding glow of his own hands and the gunky maroon of zombie blood that spurts out each time he eviscerates one. 

Now where the bloody hell had all this hidden anger and power been when Zari was screaming for help? When Ava was crying Sara’s name over and over again until she had lost all the fight in her? When Nate’s steel hand was reaching out, trying to grab onto the edge of John’s coat in a desperate attempt to pull himself free? When Mick’s heat gun skidded across the ground, a mere meter away from John’s own feet? 

Each hand gesture is accompanied by a guttural growl of a phrase, followed by a body hitting the floor. 

The second deaths are gruesome and look painful, but John doubts these sods can feel anything at all. 

He sure as fuck can’t.

At some point, even the undead are able to grow a brain or two. They begin to shuffle out of the doors, broken and hanging by their hinges. Their expressions don’t so much as twitch, but it’s as if they can sense the unstable _danger_ dripping off the man with the dirtied soul. 

_We can’t take him, and we sure as hell won’t stick around to try._

He watches their retreating backs, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. His hair feels clumpy and heavy on his head, causing him to hunch forward. He can’t move from his spot.

He takes a quick survey of the scene; a handful of zombies remain but are wandering around aimlessly towards the entranceway. His outstretched arms are shaking, but he can’t seem to put them down. He’s practically drained himself empty. The sharp spears of pain in the back of his eyeballs make the ground quake, his vision blurring. He wonders if its intentional, just so he can lose focus on the current scene before him. Every muscle in his body feels sore and stiff, the tension tight enough that he wonders if he’ll just snap and that’ll be the end of it. 

John doesn’t even feel himself blink, his eyes refocusing to watch the stragglers of the undead shuffle out of the pub. Finally, the last one leaves his field of view and into the foggy streets. He swallows, letting out a stuttered breath.

A single whiskey glass rolls off the bar counter, shattering beside Ava’s body. 

**.**

His knees knock against each other, and he finally feels his legs fold beneath him as he crashes down hard. A jolt of pain runs up his thighs at the landing but no one cares. 

His breaths come back to him all at once, assaulting his chest with gulping gasps that cut each other off as if fighting for their place in his shriveled-up lungs. A shaky gore-covered hand finds its way to grasp as his equally gore-covered shirt. The other hand is grasping at the dirty wooden floor for something to ground him. The shards of alcohol glass digging into his flesh do nicely. He’s glad he didn’t end up grabbing at Mick’s hand, which is lying to his right; the owner of it on his left. 

He’s breathing so hard, he can barely breathe. 

Sounds real fucking stupid when you really think about it- a bewildered giggle manages to escape his lips.

Both hands clench at his dirty hair, the shards of glass in his palm now dig into his scalp. He can feel warmth dripping down the side of his ears and down his neck. 

The silence is too much now. Too empty, too jarring, too noticeable in the aftermath of that loud shitfest. John opens his mouth, wanting to say something‒ _to curse, to laugh, to cry, to scream_ ‒ to do something to fill the void. Something to make the ringing of nothingness stop. Instead, he continues to sit there like some gobsmacked git. He closes his mouth shut, then opens it again. He repeats this several times, unable to make a single sound. 

What could he even say? Sorry? As if a bloody apology even matters now. And to who? The lifeless bodies of the people he’s once again doomed? 

His gaze wanders, stopping at each and every person that had somehow become important to him over the course of the last year and a half. His mind began supplying him with the thoughts he’s just too bloody damn tired to vocalize out loud. 

You were a survivor, Sara. You made the calls that needed to be made. You said the things that needed to be said to people like me, even when I didn’t want to ‘ear it. You invited me into your little group, even though you knew what I would bring. People like us don’t deserve happy endings, it’s not in our nature. But you. You defied the odds. You deserved it all...I’m sorry I cocked it up for you, love. 

Sharpie, you’ve really made your mark on this gaggle of misfits. Hell, you’ve found a way to fit in better than I ever could’ve. Because you tried. You really did. You did what I never bothered to. Made an effort to care and belong. You didn’t like me in the beginning, but you still _cared._ Think you even held me hand today. Funny how much has changed since you first showed up at my door with Gary huh? 

Mick...we’ve come a long way since our first meeting, aye big man? I’unno how many bottles we’ve cheered, how many tables we’ve totaled when I taught ya rummy. I appreciated it y’know...all those times I’ve said things I probably shouldn’t have said while piss drunk and you just took it into stride without being an asshat about it. You were a good man. Might have done some unsavory stuff in the past, but haven’t we all? I’m sorry you won’t get a chance to spend more time with your daughter. 

Nate. You’d never leave me alone. Always walking into my room, dragging me off to join you Raymond and Behrad for ‘bro’ activities. And every time, I’d say no. But that didn’t stop you from coming back, handsome...You and Raymond always thought there was something more to me. You were wrong, but...you had faith. You trusted me. Trusted me back at Heyworld to kill you. Kill you to save your best mate. Sacrificing yourself for someone you love...You had a big heart, old son. 

Zari….bollocks I don’t know what to say, love. I’m lost...I really don’t know if we can save your brother at this point. Even if I somehow manage to do it without fucking up...what’s the point? You’re not here. Then I’ll have to explain to Behrad why I couldn’t keep his sister safe...There is so much more I wish I could’ve said to you, asked you. What happened between us...had it meant anything? Would it have meant anything if things were different? I don’t know what you meant to me, and..now we’ll never bloody know...I’m so sorry, love. 

He mulls over his unsaid words. Words he would’ve never admitted to out loud. And now they are all dead. Even if he had a change of heart, these words can’t be said to the right people ever again. 

He sees Sara’s body twitch out of the corner of his eye and stills. Right. Zombie apocalypse. They had all been bitten to death. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? For them to also return after death.

As marionettes for the Fates to fling around in his bloody face, souls detached from their flesh; unable to rest even after all the shit they’ve been put through. 

John shuffles to his knees and crawls ‒he really doesn’t have the strength to stand anymore‒ his way to a corner of the room. His back presses against the wall, and he suddenly feels very small in the grand scheme of things. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small satchel and yanks on the drawstrings.

Silently, he sprinkles the salt into a semi-circle around him, tossing the bag aside after the particles hit both sides of the walls he’s cornered himself into. A whispered sentence has the salt glow briefly before settling. His knees press up against his chest, and he rests his chin against them.

It’s pointless really. These were zombies, not demons or spirits. And it’s not like they would be interested in him anyways, damned soul and all.

He hopes they’ll make an exception. Maybe their brains wouldn’t be decomposed enough yet. Maybe they’d recognize him. Recognize him for the major fuck up he is and hobble over to tear his limbs apart. It would only be fair. After the bloody ledger of friendships destroyed through his mistakes, it would only make sense for those dead friends of his to be the one to finish him off once and for all. 

The salt circle is here merely to discourage vengeful little demon buggers from crawling out of Hell to call dibs first. 

He pulls the Silk Cuts from his pocket. The carton is brown, saturated with undead gore. He shrugs a stick out, holding it between his cracked lips. Never a day where he’s too good to have a ciggy just because it’s covered in blood. 

For once, his lighter takes pity on him and sparks on the first try. He inhales shakily, eyes drifting shut as smoke fills his dying lungs. His muscles loosen ever so slightly, body growing limp as he slides a bit against the wall. Bloody sunflower seeds had nothing on this. He keeps his head down, refusing to let his gaze wander towards the pool table, where he knows Zari is lying on the other side. 

_So gross._

His teeth clench on the filter before his jaws slacken. The cigarette falls and lands in a puddle of blood, barely a wisp of smoke escaping before the embers get drowned completely. He stares at it, watching the remaining portions of white turn red. 

He tilts his head back, exhaling the last bit of smoke still trapped inside. The nonsensical shapes of vapor disappear into the air and he blinks after it. 

John wants to drink. Surely there are some bottles left intact. It's a pretty big pub; it would take him a while to get through the stock. Enough time and alcohol to erase every thought. Until he could no longer remember any of this or feel anything at all. But he can't get himself to move; the mere thought of it made him feel nauseous. Too much effort, too much pain. He can't feel his legs. 

He wonders how much of Britain has become a wasteland. If it is even limited to just this continent. Atropos didn’t seem like one to make unnecessary moves. Yet, it didn’t seem out of her nature to let the poison spread far and wide; Charlie had said Atropos thrived on the chaos of death. 

Charlie.

There’s no functioning clock in sight; the one on his wrist is smashed and bloody. John has no idea how long it’s been since he saw the portal shut behind Charlie’s retreating back. But here he is, collapsed in a corner of a decimated pub with his entire team dismembered nearby. He counts in his head, lips moving softly without sound. 

He reaches one thousand before his mouth stills. Nothing’s changed. Charlie hasn’t used the loom. 

He shakes his head, eyes stinging. Maybe her sisters have won after all. And this is it. This is the future he’s going to have to deal with. More dead friends with a zombie apocalypse sprinkled on top. A lovely dessert, indeed. 

He feels sick. 

His mind wanders to Chas, who would be somewhere across the Atlantic. Should John be preparing himself for the giant of a man to break through the window within the next few hours, demanding to know how John has screwed things up this time? John would offer him a tired smile, no answers ready. Then Chas would sigh and offer him a hand. Chas would take him home and clean him up before prodding John to make a game plan. 

_You’re a bloody delusional twit._ He snarls at himself, willing the warm images to fade. He had left Chas and Zed so many years ago for good reason. Most people didn’t stick around John Constantine for long. They would usually grow some sense and leave before things go tits up. Except for the handful dumb enough to think they’d be an outlier to the fatal paradigms that surround John’s life. He had removed himself from the equation the moment the Rising Darkness had been taken care of. 

He looks at the dead Legends before him. Dumb enough to allow him in. They paid the price in the end. 

Maybe Chas and Zed will show up. But as zombies, ready to tear him a new one. Join the undead Legends to finish him off. That’s just wishful thinking, he snickers. As if he’s worth zombie Chas and zombie Zed’s time to paddle across the ocean to murder. Zombies can’t even swim. Would Chas even become a zombie? How many lives did he have left anyway? How would that even work?

He’s starting to see Ava’s body shift as well. He entertains the thought of possibly using a sleep spell on himself. That way he wouldn’t have to see what the Legends have become. A final act of respect towards their memory. Or should he just suck it up and own up to what his screw-ups have resulted in? 

Because every single event has stemmed from his fuck ups, hasn’t it? 

Maybe if he had stopped fucking around and gotten a real license instead of parading around with a fake. Maybe if he had owned a bloody car, they’d have gotten to London earlier, charged the time courier, and pissed off before the zombie hordes managed to congregate in such large numbers. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been so impatient, Atropos wouldn’t have been led back to the damn Waverider and Behrad would’ve still been alive. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been John Constantine, arrogant bastard with an endless ego and the infinite capability to fuck things up, Astra would have lived a Hell-less life alongside her mother and father. Then, the Encores wouldn’t have been a problem; Astra being blackmailed into helping the Fates wouldn’t have been a problem. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been a bloody damn fool that believed he deserved a chance at love again. Then, Desmond wouldn’t have become Neron’s plaything and John wouldn’t have ever joined the Legends in the first place. All he’s done is brought problem after problem, exacerbating things at every turn because he thought he could fix it his way. 

None of this would’ve been a problem if John Constantine had learned to show some fucking restraint and stopped bloody pretending he could keep any lying promise he’s ever made in his soddin’ waste of a life. 

He licks his lips, tasting the salt from the tears that have started to flow freely. 

“Bollocks.” He swears and grinds his teeth together, trying to stop the uncontrollable intake of breath before it becomes soft keens as more tears drip down his cheeks. Now that he’s aware of it, the emotions flood out without stop. His breathing hitches again, snot and tears mixing together as he scrubs his face using his bloodied sleeves, shoulders shaking. His throat is tight, raw, and sore from all the spells he’s cast in the past few hours. 

_Fuck. Fuck._ He shudders, fists clenched. There isn’t any time for a total mental breakdown. It’s been a year since he’s had one. Now’s not the bloody time, he needs to...to…

What is he supposed to do? What can he do without fucking things up some more? 

No one living is around to see him fall apart, so he does. Piece by piece, he allows himself to crumble, limbs trembling and sobs wracking his entire frame. 

The last time he did this, he had been lying in some warehouse. His entire body had felt numb, his mind floating above him, replaying Desmond’s final screams. His hands shook with residual energy, the air made of Hell’s sulfur suffocating his heaving chest. He had cried until his voice was gone and his body couldn’t grace him with another teardrop. He’d laid there for half a day, staring at the brick wall, wondering why he thought he deserved anything good.

He blinks at the wooden floor of the pub, sniffling softly. His eyes burn, everything is hurting and still, nothing’s changed. 

And he doesn’t think it will ever change. 

Leaning forward, John presses his forehead against his knees. Maybe it’s just time for him to stop. Stop making plans. Stop moving. Stop doing things. Stop interfering. Stop messing up. 

His eyes fall shut. 

Just stop. 

* * *

Charlie sees the considering quirk of Lachesis’ eyebrows and lets her shoulders relax. She’s done it. They’ll allow for it. She can save the Legends. All of her friends. She can do it. 

She barely remembers her own speech, spoken fast and urgently with a shaky voice and wide eyes. They went back and forth several times. Atropos’ cold voice cut through her points, and Lachesis’ deceptively soothing voice had made her falter several times. Yet she had pushed and pushed, standing her ground. Charlie had also pointed at Astra’s corpse, refusing to flinch as she gave a smirk that felt slimy and wrong.

_You don’t have your backup plan anymore. It’s either me or no Loom. And I will gladly end myself if you don’t let me bloody have this._

_You spoilt little bra-_

_Cease, Atropos. Clotho has her truths._

She supposes being the youngest sister still had its perks, even after millennia of strained conflict. Lachesis’ exasperation and Atropos’ quiet fury wash over her, but she knows she has won. Well, if you can call her a plan a victory anyways.

Humans will lose their free will yet again. No more disobedience, no more wild parties (sorry Dion), no more revolt and revolution. All the things Charlie has spent the past few centuries reveling in, gone in a flash once they get their hands on the threads of humanity once again. 

But she had seen the chaos she left behind when running through the portal. Even if any of her friends had survived, Atropos’ puppets would scour the earth to find them. The millions left (un)dead along the path would mean nothing to the Inevitable One. At least this way, the Legends will be alive. They will be spared instead of executed with a single cut of their lifeline. 

She’ll take that as a win any day. 

“Keep your human playthings. They may become useful yet.” Lachesis says with a dismissive wave before turning towards the rings in Atropos’ hand. 

“Now come Clotho. We must start work at once.” 

“Wait.” She begins, swallowing when she sees Atropos scowl and tighten the other hand into a fist. 

“You are a bold fool to think you are in any position to-”

“Are there more demands you wish to make? Clotho dear, we have been very generous already, wouldn’t you agree?” Lachesis looks patient, but her piercing eyes make Charlie stare at the ground, fingers going to fiddle with her hair. 

“Yes Lachesis, and I’m grateful. Truly...But please, let me collect their threads first. It’d be easier to weave them into a program if I had them close by when we...fix everything.” She wants to see if they’re alright, if they’d survived. Maybe she could give them some warning or reassurance that this would be for the best. A chance to live another day, to bide their time. 

She feels a shiver run down her spine when Lachesis’ fingers brush against her wrist as she hands back the time courier.

“Thank you, sister.” She breathes out, turning around while messing with the dials.

A portal opens to show the pub. She sees blood and broken glass, already feeling dread spread through her body. She takes a step‒

“Clotho.” 

She stops, tilting her head slightly.

“Tò peprōménon phygeîn adýnaton [1]. Keep the gateway open.” Lachesis gives her a bright smile, and Charlie can see it mirrored in Atropos’ own disturbing rendition of a smirk. 

She could only nod before stepping through.

Everything is quiet except for the glass crunching beneath her boots. She winces as it echoes across the room, but she doesn’t see any undead charging. Instead, she sees‒

She chokes on her next breath, a hand lifting to grip at her own mouth to keep the cry in. 

Charlie doesn’t know where to look or even where to avoid her gaze. The Legends‒her _friends_ ‒blood, bites, missing parts, gray skin, glassy pupils‒she clenches her eyes shut, feeling the tears spill over onto her cheeks.

 _I’msorryI’msorryI’msososososorry_ ‒

Her legs feel weak, and she slowly sinks to her knees. Her hand on the bar counter is her only anchor, and she can feel it tremble against the surface. This is all her fault. 

She hears Lachesis’ soft coos from beyond the portal, “oh little sister, this is what I was warning you about. Humans just aren’t equipped to deal with free will.”

“Hurry up.” Comes Atropos' reply.

Charlie wants to whip around and snarl, _this is your fucking fault in the first place, how dare you_! But she doesn’t turn; she’s afraid if she opened her mouth, vomit would come up instead of words.

And what right did she have to utter those words? Charlie is just at fault as her sisters, isn’t she? She had stayed with the Legends instead of leaving, believing that she’d found herself a family. One that doesn’t speak to her like she’s a bloody child who can’t make the best decisions for herself. One that listens to her and lets her indulge in her interests without brushing her off. 

And now they’re all dead because she had been selfish. Again and again, they all die because Charlie‒because _Clotho_ can’t escape her own fate. It’s all so fucking hilarious, innit? 

But no. No, she can change this. Charlie blinks away her tears, pulling herself off the ground. She is here to change it, to save them. One last time. 

She walks to the center of the room so that she would have the space to gather their threads all at once. It’d be quick, it’d be easy. Their bodies will disappear and she can bring them all back. Nice and simpl‒

She hears shifting in the corner of the room and jumps, shoulders tense with her fists raised. She scans the corner, expecting one of Atropos’ minions, instead, it’s‒

**John.**

“ _Fuck,_ John.” She whispers, rushing over. He’s practically crumpled against the wall, head hanging low. His clothes look maroon, pieces of undead clinging to the edges. He had blended in so well with the carnage, she hadn’t even noticed. But he’s moving; he’s alive. 

One of them had made it. 

Charlie skids on something soft‒and hopes it isn’t brains‒and lands in a pile in front of John. She is careful not to disrupt the salt circle he has enclosed himself into. She isn’t quite sure if it had a purpose, but she knew not to mess with his spells. 

“Johnno?” She ventures, hands outstretched, and reaching for him slowly, bracing herself for a magic barrier. He doesn’t answer her, and her fingers aren’t being knocked back by some invisible force. 

She surges forward, hands grasping at his face and pushing up. 

“John?” She tries again, eyes taking him in completely. His shock of blonde hair looks dull and dirty with blood, sweat, and maybe even chunks of flesh. He’s looking at her, but also behind her, eyes unseeing. His face is pinched with pain, and Charlie isn’t sure if its physical pain or something else entirely. 

“John please it’s me, Charlie. Snap out of it, mate.” She tries again, rubbing his cheeks. They are warm and splotchy red. She sees the pink rims around his eyes. Blimey, how long has he been sitting here like this? How long has Charlie left him here like this? 

She doesn’t hear her sisters, so she assumes they’re letting this play out. For her sake or for some twisted form of entertainment, she isn’t sure but right now the only thing on her mind is getting John to wake up. 

“C’mon lad. I’m right here, it’s going to be alright. I can fix it. I can...I will.” She murmurs, squeezing his face. She will. She will fix everything, she will. She has to. 

Hands grab hers, and she hears John’s sharp inhale. He blinks a few times, eyes wide.

“C-charlie?” 

She’s never heard his voice sound so low and soft before. Her name is spoken like a question, tinged with uncertainty and downright fear, as if he isn’t sure if she’s a ghost or a figment of his imagination. She cracks a weak smile.

“Righto, Johnny. That’s me.” She manages, pulling her hands free from his grasp before placing them back on top of his with a squeeze. 

John comes back to life immediately. He surges to his feet, only to have them wobble as he pitches forward.

“Woah, easy easy! I’m right here. It’s alright.” She steadies him by the shoulders, pushing him back down to the ground. The salt circle is smeared across both their pants, but John doesn’t seem to mind. 

He doesn’t stop. Instead, he reaches out to grasp at her jacket lapels, clinging and barely holding himself up. His face is mere centimeters away from her own and all she sees is the wild, hollow gaze in his brown eyes. 

“They’re dead, Charlie. All of them.” The sentence is spoken in hushed tones, ending with an incredulous giggle even though the words aren’t funny at all. He steals a quick glance behind her, a pained whine escaping his lips when he sees a body; Charlie isn’t sure which one.

“Astra...Gary.” 

Fuck. Those bodies. She shifts to block his view of the open portal, rubbing his hands to keep him focused on her voice. His expression is one that she simply can’t describe. The grief in every line of his face, it made Charlie want to break down in tears. _Fuck, this is so fucked up._

“I’m sorry, Johnno. They were already…” 

“It’s my fault, Charlie. Another Constantine screw up.” He ducks his head down when his voice cracks.

“No John this one isn’t on you.” Her own lips tremble. “It’s on me, I’ve cocked it up big time. I’m so sorry. This would’ve never happened if I hadn’t broken the bloody Loom and‒”

“The Loom.” His head shoots back up, and somehow John looks even more unhinged. _Crikey, he’s gone full mental._ But can Charlie blame him? 

“The Loom, Charlie the bloody Loom!” His grip on her shirt is tight and trembling, his knuckles as white as the sickly hue of his skin. Charlie doesn’t think she’s seen John like this...ever. Not even when they had gone off and broken the timeline. And Charlie had spent a good few days drinking away his sorrows with him afterward. 

“Fix this, Charlie. I don’t care how just-just **please**.” 

Charlie wonders if she’s gone just as pale. John Constantine doesn’t beg. Not like this. Never like this. 

“John…”

“Say you’ll do it. Charlie, swear it. Please I can’t‒I _can’t_ do this anymore.” 

“Yes, John.” She yanks at his arms, pulling him up until their noses are pressed together. He smells like shit, and she does too. She gets a whiff of the stale alcohol and smoke on his breath, and for a moment she thinks about the last drinks they had shared together with the team. It had only been a few hours‒ _a few bloody hours_ ‒ ago when they were sitting around the table, just cheering cups with easy smiles, and talking about their dreams

Dreams…

“I’ll fix everything, John. The Legends will live, they’ll be happy. It’s all gonna work out, mate. I swear to you, I’ll make it happen.”

“Happy…” He rolls the word around his tongue as if it’s a foreign concept. She sniffs, pressing her forehead against his.

“I can make you happy too, Johnno. W-wouldn’t that be nice?” 

“...Is that possible?” His voice is small, almost shy. She lets out a laugh and headbutts him, listening to him hiss with a sad smile.

“Anything for you, mate.” 

“Who’s gonna operate that thing with you? ‘ow will ya do it?” 

“I’ll need my sisters.” She admits softly, closing her eyes when she feels him tense.

“I’ll have to do it their way. But the Legends will live. That’s the price I have to pay. Whaddya think, Johnno? Is it worth it?” She moves back, staring straight into his eyes. 

He looks less unstable now, but even more tired than she’s ever seen him before. 

“There’s no other way?” He asks, voice flat. 

“Not without them meddling…do you trust me, John? To make things right? To make you happy?” 

He’s silent for a long time, eyes tracing her features in silent contemplation. She swallows loudly, wondering what he sees. 

The smile he gives her looks haunted and wrong.

“Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt [2].” He mutters to himself before squeezing her hands.

“Yes, Charlie. I trust you.” 

She exhales slowly, feeling heavy, and resigned. 

“Thank you, Johnno.” She leans in, pressing her lips against his grimy forehead. 

She gives his face one more pat before standing. John stays put at his current spot, eyes following her warily as she lifts her arms. 

She takes a few long breaths, waiting for her heart to settle. It’s been millennia since she’s done this, but the magic feels archaic and familiar. The hairs on her body tingle and she allows her power to gradually build. She can hear her own heartbeat and John’s, no one else's in the room. She turns her head towards her lifeless friends, hands outstretched. 

She pulls. 

Five golden strands, dull and frayed, jump from the bodies and float their way to her. She watches the way they twist and turn around her body slowly, as if curious. She gives them a smile, humming soft encouragements until they coiled around each of her fingers snugly. When they settle, she brings her hand to her lips, letting her warm breath wash over each and every thread with a gentle kiss. 

_It’s alright. Charlie’s got you. It’s gonna be alright._

She turns back to John. He's focused entirely on the threads, lips pursed but curled slightly upward. His eyes look sad, yet the affection is inherent in the way they take in each thread wrapped around Charlie's hand. His own fingers are twitching by his sides; he wants to hold them close too. He turns his attention back to Charlie when she moves to stand before him.

There's a pregnant pause. With her staring down at him kneeling before her, it feels very much like an execution. Her stomach rolls uncomfortably. 

“Ready?” She whispers.

John takes one more look around the room, trembling hands curling into tight fists before relaxing again. He shakes his head with a hoarse chuckle but doesn't appear defiant. Charlie understands; there really is no way to be ready for what she's about to do. 

She makes a beckoning gesture towards him and he sits up a bit straighter.

They meet eyes for the last time and share a solemn nod.

Then, she pulls.

"Ah‒!" John gasps, eyes unblinking and wide. A glowing thread emerges from his chest, sparking wildly between the two. It tosses from side to side, strong enough to knock the remaining upright tables to their sides. 

“Blimey, you’re a wild one aren’t ya Johnno?” She mutters, narrowing her eyes in hard concentration. But John’s already slipping into a catatonic state‒ arms limp by his sides, jaws slack and eyes hazy. Even then, his thread whips around like a live wire, refusing to come close. It sways back and forth before her, and it's almost as if she can feel it stare her down. It begins a slow circle around her body, stalking. 

“C’mon John, it’s just me. You said you trusted me. C’here…” She coaxes, pushing more energy into her fingertips, wriggling them. She is absolutely fascinated by the way the thread seems to consider her words, inching closer and closer until the tip of it hovers at her fingertip. 

She takes a deep breath before closing the small gap.

"!" Charlie stops breathing the moment the thread makes contact with her skin. 

His thread burns hot, almost enough to melt her flesh and fuse with her very being. It’s nothing like she’s ever touched and felt before. It draws her in, pulling at her rather than the other way around. For a moment she catches a glimpse of something incomprehensible. _Thousands of images, things that have happened, that didn't happen, are happening, will happen, pathways dead ends branches mirrors‒_

“The synchronicity.” She hears herself say in awe; everything feels numb.

Suddenly, things just start falling into place.

“Oh Johnno….” He can’t hear her, but she says it anyway. It all makes sense now. Why she had been so drawn to him since the very beginning. Why he’s somehow been able to fall into so many predicaments and be the only one to come out unscathed. Why his very life thread fought so hard against her. 

“You probably don’t even know what you’re capable of, _Laughing Magician_.” She hums softly, rotating her wrist to allow his subdued thread to wrap around it. She shuffles on her feet, moving her body to block John from the open portal’s view. She wonders if her sisters know; if they even had a clue on how to counter the unfathomable power he holds over all three of them. 

“But it’s gonna be alright John.” The last bit of his thread snaps out of his chest. He jerks once before his eyes roll back and his body collapses like a marionette that just lost its puppeteer. She caresses his lifeline with her other hand, allowing the Legends to make contact with each other. His bright light illuminates the dull threads, and she can almost make herself believe they had just been reunited beyond this mortal plane. 

Charlie turns around, eyes glowing brightly. She walks back towards the Waverider, six life threads in hand.

“I’ll give you all the happy endings you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] τὸ πεπρωμένον φυγεῖν ἀδύνατον.  
> Tò peprōménon phygeîn adýnaton.  
> "It's impossible to escape from what is destined."
> 
> [2] ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt — the fates lead the willing and drag the unwilling
> 
> I don’t think John told anyone but Zari about him being immune to the zombies.
> 
> Kinda dark and sad all around, but hey at least things get kinda better in the next two episodes that follow :’) 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed, comments are appreciated :D


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